


First Promise

by Howland



Series: Crown Jewels [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Apologies, Engagement, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Jewelry, Jewels, M/M, betrothal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 06:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2802134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howland/pseuds/Howland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin and Bilbo and a diamond ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Promise

**Author's Note:**

> I have not seen the final movie yet and I wanted to finish and post this before I did. Just, trying to brace myself for the inevitable pain. Oh my heart.

Bilbo’s heartsick, and it isn’t healing.

Days turn to weeks and long hours of cleaning and rebuilding and managing the crowds of refugees sheltering from winter in Erebor’s halls drag on the Hobbit. Often he longs for the Shire, for a quieter life, a more comfortable one.

Then he shakes his head and rolls up his sleeves and helps Bombur scrub down another stove, helps Ori sort through what’s left of the library, helps Balin deal with Elven legalese.

He is not the same Hobbit he was, and he knows in his heart that there isn’t really any going back. When the roads thaw he may find himself retracing his steps to his old smial, but things will never be the same again.

So he lingers, and he cannot help it.

There is no closure to these chapters yet. No finality. Though Balin has implied many times that the King wishes to speak with him, Bilbo does not trust it. He knows it is rude of him, but Thorin has not ordered it and Bilbo has not visited.

He cannot just yet.

If he goes to him, they may wind up saying their final words to each other and Bilbo cannot bear the thought.

These days of waiting and wanting and aching are better than days of loss and despair so Bilbo clings to them stubbornly.

One day he will return home. One day he will be a bachelor again, and he will forget the days when Thorin Oakenshield was his lover, and the days when the dwarf was his enemy. He will choose only to remember the King as a tragic figure in a tale of glory and woe, and he will put this all behind him.

But not yet. Not just yet.

\---

In the King’s chamber Thorin broods, arms crossed heavily over his chest, waiting for the verdict from his friend and ally.

Gloin chuckles to himself as he glances over the design Thorin has put in his hands.

“Daisies and diamonds my King? I can’t say I’ve ever seen a design quite like this before.”

“Can you help me execute it?” Thorin presses, back straight despite the needling pain it causes him to keep himself upright.

Gloin glances up and frowns.

“Aye, it’s simple enough. I’ll need time to assess and refurbish the equipment in the jeweler’s halls but-”

With a huff Thorin shifts forward in his chair, interrupting. “If we could pull stones from an existing setting, could we complete it faster?”

The question gives Gloin pause. Leaning back in his chair, he settles a hand in his beard, stroking the new braids he has been wearing since the end of the great battle.

“Aye.” He says after a long moment. “Aye, if we dismantle something I suppose it would go a fair bit faster. We will still have to sculpt and cast the setting, but with the gems already cut I can’t imagine it wouldn’t take us more than a week or two to-”

Sighing, Thorin finally eased himself back into his tall, dark wood chair.

“Use this.”

Turning at the waist, he retrieves a box set on a side board next to him, unlatching it with no small reverence, and withdrawing a small gold bandeau that had once been lovingly wrought as a sunburst of white and yellow diamonds. It had had the misfortune to rest directly beneath the bulk of a wyrm and now has been mangled beyond repair. There are empty settings that have lost their stones, but more than enough remain for Thorin’s simple design.

“It is Dis’.” Thorin grunts in reply to Gloin’s unasked questions as he passes over the destroyed piece of jewelry. “She wore it from her infancy until she outgrew it in her twenties. If she takes issue with the fact that I have repurposed it I will deal with it, but I doubt she’ll miss it.”

Gloin shrugs and cradles the tiny mangled crown in his large hands. “As you say, sire.” He agrees softly, a strange sort of grief overwhelming him for a moment as he traces the bent and twisted lines of the piece.

With another sigh Thorin tilts his head back and closes his eyes.

The red headed jeweler shakes himself from his own melancholy and settles back in his chair with the bandeau now held matter-of-factly in his lap. They sit in silence for several long minutes until Gloin chuckles and asks “If that’s all sire I might be heading out to get started then.”

A frown crosses Thorin’s features as he opens his eyes and turns his gaze to Gloin, brow furrowed.

“You do not have to begin right this moment-” He begins but Gloin waves his hand.

“Begging your pardon your majesty but this seems to me to be a commission of urgency. I’ve been meaning to survey the jewelers halls anyway, might as well go down and do it now.”

“Rest sometime this night, Gloin.” Thorin orders with a tilt of his head and the jeweler laughs.

“With the utmost respect I’ll be telling you to take your own advice, your majesty. Oin will have my head if you don’t take proper care of yourself. You look half-asleep as it is.”

For a moment Thorin considers taking offense, but lets it pass with an undignified snort. “Of course. Save us all from the wrath of your brother.”

Gloin laughs again and stands up, bowing low to his king before making for the door. “He’s a force to be reckoned with, aye. I don’t envy you your position.”

Thorin leans his head back against the chair once more. “Good evening, Gloin.” He murmurs to the man as he retreats.

“And to you, my King.” Gloin calls back, then door to the King’s chambers closes and Thorin is left alone to his thoughts.

Thorin settles low in his set, his shoulders up against his ears, and stretches his feet out towards the flames crackling in the hearth. Erebor feels cold to him in the wake of dragon fire. In the long hours after war, the chill bites at him, the memories of Smaug’s blazing heat all too sharp in his mind.

Progress is slow, but coming along well enough. A steady trickle of returning dwarrow has been turning into a greater stream as winter ebbs into spring. The ever-growing number of available hands has quickly made the halls of the palace and surrounding complex habitable. The restored soldiers’ barracks provide temporary housing for those who return until the deeper neighborhoods inside the mountain can be inspected and refurbished.

It is a blessing to be certain, in wake of all they have suffered, to see their lost home slowly waking to life once again. Thorin is humbled that he has lived to see this day.

And yet.

Something sits ill in his gut, and his skin prickles with cold.

His thoughts are with the Hobbit. Always the Hobbit.

After battle, upon waking from a deep healing sleep the first sight Thorin had been greeted with had been that of his wan and weary Hobbit, sitting in a chair near the head of his sick bed, scratching something on a piece of paper in his lap.

Words had not come to him then, his mind clouded and murky, yet there had remained something inside him which had known well enough to cringe away from those tired eyes the moment they’d looked up to meet his own.

He hadn’t been able to stay awake long that first time, and when he’d roused again some hours later, Bilbo had been gone.

As the tangle of his mind had sorted itself and his body had healed, the gold lust had begun to slough away, like the layers of skin on a serpent. Scale by scale the veil covering him thinned, and with each dropping thread bitterness rushed in to fill its wake.

Between every order and edict, Thorin has found himself begging Balin to pass messages to the Hobbit, asking him to come to him, wanting to speak to him properly.

There is so much he needs to say.

But as the days wear on and Thorin continues to strengthen, Bilbo stays away. Thorin would never press it as an order, and Bilbo takes advantage of his mercy, keeping to his own devices.

Thorin understands. He will not ask for mercy he does not deserve.

And yet.

There is a space in Thorin’s chest which he is not accustomed to acknowledging, a space that _aches_ in a manner he cannot fix.

Not without aid.

So he sits in the cold of his chambers every night, alone. He stirs the fire, and he thinks.

This situation is untenable. It cannot continue. Thorin will fall to some sort of new sickness - one born of regret - and his kingdom only just won will teeter on the brink of another collapse.

He has made a plan for his Hobbit. He does not trust it, but it is a plan never-the-less. He must try.

He is not deserving of forgiveness, but he must try. His dreams taunt him with memories of the all too few nights he spent with Bilbo in Laketown as a lover. They taunt him with the hope he had felt then, the conviction that all would be right in the end; that with Bilbo, he would reign in triumph.

He wishes for not the first time that he could be steady and quiet as stone. That he was as steadfast and true, but his heart is like a forge fire, hot and hungry and furious.

He has been fickle, he has been weak. He has fallen to madness.

Now in these early hours of a new era, he must set things to rights.

With Gloin’s help he will try.

He closes his eyes again, and plans.

\---

Two and a half weeks later and the ring has been forged. Three days after that and Thorin finds himself tracking the Hobbit through the winding halls of the palace, following leads and advice from any he crosses, hoping what little directional sense he has will not fail him now.

Familiar halls made foreign by the ravages of time and dragon’s rage bear witness to his trek. Worn steps, carved out of the mountain herself, carry his weight as he climbs up and up, seeking his quarry.

In his pocket his offering sits heavy. Uncertain.

At the top of the flight Thorin finds himself emerging out onto a windswept terrace overlooking the slopes of Dale and the distant blue stretch of the lake far below. Carved from the rock, the flat expanse of smooth stone extends two hundred feet to a sheer drop off the side of the mountain. The space is sheltered by a cavernous overhang, sixty feet high. It caps the edge of the outcrop in a low, graceful curve, and the resulting maw frames the vista of the lands below.

The king’s feet still, his eyes resting on the distant horizon with a sharp feeling taking a hold of his heart.

 _’How many times did I see these sights, and not marvel at them for the wonders they are?’_ He asks himself silently, faded memories of playing on these worn stone floors rolling through his mind. A pang of regret plucks at his heart, but he does not let it linger.

Regret has never served him well.

“There you are, Master Hobbit.” The Dwarf King says aloud, voice low but loud enough to be heard over the winds which whistle through the shaded cavern.

Under his gaze the Hobbit stiffens in startlement and turns from his seat on a low bench to glance at the king. “Here I am.” He says softly after a pause and Thorin takes it as greeting enough to let him walk forward towards the bench.

“Do you seek solitude or may I join you?” The words feel formal and too-polite in Thorin’s mouth but they are important.

This must be Bilbo’s choice.

The nervousness and the anxiety which are boiling in Thorin’s breast still only a little as the Hobbit shrugs, his eyes not quite meeting the dwarf’s before turning back to gaze out at lands below. “Suit yourself, Master Dwarf. It is your bench, after all.”

Thorin hesitates for but a moment, then he steps forward and eases himself to sit in the space next to Bilbo, joining him in his silent watch over the land.

Long minutes pass, drawn out by the tugging wind. Thorin’s hand is tucked in his pocket, his fingers wrapped tight around the treasure he carries, firm enough to keep from trembling.

At length he turns his face to regard the Hobbit, whose cheeks have been stung red by the wind and whose hands are tucked in his lap to keep his fingers warm.

Bilbo does not look back.

The trinket in Thorin’s pocket feels cold and he squeezes it tighter until the edges of the stones bite into his calloused hand, wondering if he grips it hard enough if the piece will be crushed to dust and he will be spared this battle.

Courage, he thinks. This is the least he owes his Hobbit.

“Master Baggins.” He begins at last. His throat is dry and his words catch, but he forces them out. He watches Bilbo closely but the hobbit doesn’t respond, just continues his silent vigil.

Dread pricks at Thorin’s will and he breathes deeply to steady himself.

He treads a fraught path but there is nothing for it, it must be done.

Things cannot be allowed to continue as they do. He must speak now, or risk falling back into a black hole of regret he will never be able to escape. This much he knows of himself.

Courage. He must find his courage.

Thorin opens his mouth and he pleads.

“ _Bilbo._ ”

\---

There is something so wrecked, so devastated in his tone that Bilbo cannot help himself, he cannot break the tide of hurt which washes over him.

 _‘Confound him.’_ He thinks and he closes his eyes in grief. ‘ _curse and confound this wretched heart._ ’

“Yes, Thorin.” He croaks, sighing deeply. “I am listening.”

Far be it from him to deny this dwarf anything. Not even now.

Next to him he hears Thorin heave a sigh of his own and Bilbo cannot look, he cannot bear it. If he looks now he knows he will forgive him everything and he cannot just yet, he cannot let go of his anger.

He knows it is petty and childish and he feels like a Lobelia, clinging to his hurt until it becomes ugly and sharp, but this is _warranted_ , he is _justified_. H

In just these few minutes though, sitting next to the warm bulk of the man he has followed so far and through such disaster, he can feel some of his ire ebbing away, leaving a cold hollow behind. He does not like the feeling.

“Master Baggins,” The King begins after a long moment of silence and Bilbo still will not look. He will not.

“I have been searching for some time now for the proper words to express my regret to you.” The stilted tone halts and Bilbo waits as he feels Thorin shift next to him, composing himself.

“Nay,” The dwarf continues after a beat, voice even lower than before, a bare rumble from his wide chest. “not regret. Regret is too soft a word. There is no proper word, Master Baggins - not in Common, nor Khuzduhl, nor I imagine in any tongue known in Arda - for me to express the amount of... _loathing_ I feel for myself.

“You have avoided me for these past weeks as I well understand, I would not expect any else, but in avoiding me I worry you have reached the conclusion that I do not feel remorse for what transpired following the snake’s demise. This could not be further from the truth.”

Something shakes in Thorin’s voice and Bilbo shuts his eyes and grips his hands tight in his lap because he _cannot look_.

“I fell to the same sickness I watched plague my father and my grandfather. Even after I _swore_ I would die before I let rule me.

“In the end I was weak and I too succumbed. It was you though, my Burglar, who paid the greatest price.

“As I recovered from my wounds in battle, I have slowly begun to recover also my sanity, and to remember what I have done to you...

“I am _sorry_ Bilbo. I am so very, very sorry.”

This seems to be all Thorin can say. It feels like the space next to Bilbo grows colder, like the King at his elbow loses what little life he’s managed to regain since his near-mortal wounding in battle and it is too much. _It is too much_ , and Bilbo cannot stand it, his smaller hand trembles as he reaches out blindly and lays it over his king’s arm and squeezes tight.

“Curse you, Thorin Oakenshield.” He manages to choke out after a moment, feeling warm blunt fingers gingerly cover his own. “Curse you and curse me for a fool.”

With a shoring breath Bilbo lets his eyes drift to where their hands twine over the dark blue fabric of Thorin’s coat, their fingers so different, but each so very worn.

“Dwarf, I hate that you abandoned me to _gold_ , just when I was farthest from home and most ached most for your company. I hate that you chose a jewel over my life. I hate that in Laketown you loved me, yet in these mountain halls you made me your enemy. I hate that you went out onto that killing field and nearly _died_.” Bilbo swallows around the stinging lump in his throat, blinking fiercely to stave off his tears.

“I hate that you closed your eyes for what I though would be the last before I could tell you that I don’t hate you, Thorin Oakenshield. I never could.”

Bilbo inhales sharply and rolls his eyes upward, staring at the cut stone ceiling as he fights against the hurt and the relief and the regret which all boils and churns in his heart.

“I don’t hate you,” He says again after a long pause. “And I may be a fool for it, but I forgive you. I don’t want to be angry with you any more. I have tried to leave, I have tried to do away with you, but I cannot. I don’t want to, I will not-”

Voice rising in pitch with every word he is cut off when a pair of large, muscled arms place themselves about his shoulders and he is brought close to his dwarf’s chest. His own hands come up to catch himself from falling and he finds them fisting in the front of Thorin’s richly embroidered coat, his eyes squeezed tight as he buries himself against the warmth and the strength and the scent of the friend, the _lover_ he has been trying to resign himself to never having again.

“Curse you.” He hisses against the fur and wool and the beard which is as short as it has always been, but they’re pressed too close and the words are meaningless.

For a long time neither one of them says anything, they simply hold on, letting the other’s presence begin to heal some of the burning wounds still festering in their hearts.

When they pull apart Bilbo’s whole face is red, his eyes wet and nose running and he knows he must be a sight but Thorin reaches up and frames his face with his hands and holds his head like he is gazing upon the most precious thing in the whole world.

“There is more.” Thorin rumbles on after a moment, his tone stiff again and Bilbo has known him long enough to recognize that tone for what it is.

He waits with a needling anticipation in his belly.

“I know that simple words are not nearly enough to begin to repair all the damage I have wrought. I wish to combine word with deed. If you will accept, I would give you a gift. We were lovers, however briefly, and I would have you again, and forever, as the companion of my heart. I would give you a sign of my commitment to you.”

Bilbo’s spine tightens in dread. “I do not like this, Thorin.” He replies quietly. “I have seen the weight your people place in signs and _symbols_ and I do not trust them.”

The King who had been reaching into his pocket for something pauses. Bilbo watches as the tight white knobs of his knuckles clench.

“This is not like that.” Thorin all but whispers after a time. “If truly you do not wish this gift I understand but, please-”

The hand buried in his pocket emerges, clenched tight around something small and Bilbo watches with bated breath, not sure what to expect but knowing that some small hope inside him still wars with reason.

“I did not craft it solely by myself and for that I am sorry.” The King murmurs. “I wanted it made promptly, with as much skill as possible, and Gloin is a far better jeweler than I so he assisted me in it’s forging. The design however, I have put much... time in to.”

Slowly he turns his hand over, and opens his fist.

In the center of his palm, is a ring. A _beautiful_ ring.

A lattice of silver-white metal has been shaped to form the outlines of six daisies, their petals interlocking like cogs to create a solid band. Despite the flowers, it is far from the swirling, delicate filigree of the elves, it feels Dwarven. Sturdy.

But there are _daisies._

A the center of each crafted bloom is a yellow stone. Bilbo doesn’t know what stone precisely, but they are so yellow they feel like the sun, glinting out of Thorin’s palm. Each petal is set with a trio of smaller white stones and those are _diamonds_ , Bilbo knows that much, and he can barely breath, can’t resist the urge to reach out and trace the top of the ring resting in Thorin’s outstretched hand.

“A ring?” He rasps after a moment, throat painfully dry and he swallows sharply. “You’re giving me a ring? A ring of flowers? Thorin-”

As he trails of, Bilbo curses the differences between Hobbits and dwarves for what feels like the thousandth. He curses his own inability to know what translates across culture and what is lost in the void of secrecy between the children of the Shire and the children of the Mountain.

His heart hurts

He wants to weep.

“Hobbits value rings?” The dwarf king asks slowly and Bilbo nods tightly, his teeth holding his lips shut to keep himself from bawling.

There is hope in Thorin’s tone and Bilbo can’t hardly bear it.

“As do dwarves.” Thorin continues slowly reaching out to grab a hold of Bilbo’s hand. Gently he tips the ring into the Hobbit’s trapped palm. “We give jewelry often as gifts. Necklaces, cuffs, hair ornaments even, but rings are... Rarer. Rings have promise.”

The hobbit doesn’t dare to look up, eyes trained with minute focus on band. “I don’t know if I understand.” He rasps at length, blinking fiercely every few moments, silently begging Thorin to continue. The ring feels so light in his palm. Weightless. “Please-” he chokes and the king holds still as stone against Bilbo and the hobbit can’t breathe. He can barely stand to keep his eyes open.

Then the strong, worn hand moves again and cups Bilbo’s fingers, pressing gently until he encourages the smaller hand to wrap around the ring and hold it tight.

“For a dwarf, every ring is a promise. To gift a ring is to pledge a troth before any and all.”

Bilbo’s heart stutters.

After all this, after all the hurt and the regret, after all these days of avoidance, he finds it hard to believe that his once-lover could be looking to-

He is a simple Hobbit, he never hoped for much from Thorin but perhaps friendship and few intimate evenings in each others company. In the dark of night if he had occasionally let himself dream of a future with something _more,_ they had been his private thoughts and he was allowed to have them.

Now though, it felt like, just maybe-

“What kind of troth?” He asks at last, words quick and just a hair desperate sounding.

Foolish, but he can’t help it. In the long string of foolish things he’s done these past months this seems to be just another drop in the river.

“Any promise worth making can be said with a ring.” Thorin answers, voice rough like it was when he lay choking on his own blood, pale and fading on what was supposed to have been his death bed. A second of panic rises in Bilbo, then the hand wrapped around his squeezes and holds firm. Bilbo’s breath steadies in his lungs.

“My troth... Bilbo, with this ring, I make _this_ promise. I promise that you have my heart. You have had my heart for a long time, and you will hold it until the day I am laid to sleep amongst the stones. There will be no other. No other to touch, to hold, or to wed. To you alone I promise all of myself. Everything I am is yours now, to cherish... And to let alone as you wish. I am yours, if you will have me.”

His eyes are truly wet now and Bilbo shuts them to keep from making a fool of himself, his chin tilted down to his chest. His heart drums a hard tattoo against his rib cage.

 _’Oh Thorin.’_ Bilbo thinks to himself when he can bare to open his eyes again, looking at the worn hand wrapped around his own. There are calluses and scars on his own fingers which would have shocked him in a previous life, but now he can’t help but admire the way they compliment Thorin’s old burn marks and scraped knuckles. “What are we to do?” He asks aloud when he can trust his voice to hold steady.

And he truly doesn’t know the answer. He feels more lost now than he ever did in their hapless trek across Arda.

There is Bag End to consider, all the trappings and duties of the life he has left behind.

He never meant to make his home in a strange and distant land.

Thorin chuckles hoarsely next to Bilbo’s ear and the sound is painfully honest. “I don’t know.” The king replies and his words pick Bilbo’s chin from his chest and turns him to meet Thorin’s eyes for the first time in a long time.

They’re as beautiful as they always are. Noble. Bilbo stares and the dwarf stares back.

“I don’t know if I can trust you.” Bilbo murmurs at last because it’s the truth, the agonizing, bitter truth. He wishes it were otherwise but too much has been said and done for things to ever be easy between them.

In the end that’s all that matters. Can he trust him? Can he stay?

Damn the Arkenstone. Damn the Dragon. Damn the fool wizard who thought to invite him along on this merry catastrophe. Every second of their victory has only pulled Bilbo a little further apart, leaving his nerves raw and abraded.

He is so very tired of _wanting_.

Bilbo’s hand is stinging and he realizes just how hard he’s squeezing the ring, he relaxes it with a sharp exhale. Thorin brings up his other hand so he’s cupping the Hobbit’s fist with both, and he brings it up to his face, lips placing a slow and rasping kiss on those pale knuckles.

“I know there are no words to convince you. I only hope you will give me enough time to prove my sincerity with deed.”

Bilbo thinks of all the weddings he’s seen over the years, all the long hours of courtship his childhood friends had waded through for one glorious day where they looked into their spouse’s eyes and knew nothing else in the whole wide world.

Confirmed Bachelor he has long been, but Bilbo wants that. He wants _everything_ from this dwarf. He will not be able to stand anything less.

“I will not be second best to a stone, Thorin. I will not. I will not watch you tithe your sanity to a _rock_.” _I can’t_. Bilbo swallows, trembling.

“I understand.” Thorin answers after a long still moment. “The Arkenstone is already gone.”

Bilbo’s heart stutters. Memories of other peoples’ happiness fade from his mind. “What?”

There’s a flash of pain that crosses Thorin’s features, followed by the same steely determination which Bilbo has so long admired and his blood sings, drinking it in even as he holds his breath for the King’s explanation.

“The Arkenstone has been buried amongst the dead who fell in the battle. It will rest well in their protection. Let them have it.” With those words some great weight seems to lift itself from Thorin’s shoulders, and the King breathes deep his spine straightening under Bilbo’s gaze.

 _‘Oh.’_ Bilbo marvels. _‘There he is.’_

“I hope-” Thorin continues after a beat. “I hope this first act of reparation will prove to you that I am in earnest-”

Whatever Thorin means to say after that Bilbo doesn’t much care. The ring still held tightly in his fist he pulls his hand free from Thorin’s only to fling both arms around the Dwarf King’s neck and cling there. For a moment Thorin is still, then his own arms wrap around Bilbo’s thin shoulders, one hand coming up to cup the back of his hobbit’s head, fingers threading in his golden curls, and Bilbo sniffs and buried his face against Thorin’s neck.

“Stupid dwarf.” He whispers against the warm skin and Thorin sways once, his own voice conspicuously silent as he holds Bilbo in his arms.

“Do you accept my promise? Will you wear the ring?” The dwarf asks thickly after long minutes of stillness.

Something in Bilbo which has been bleeding for weeks began to stitch itself closed and he laughs, breathing deep and inhaling the scent of his dwarf, letting himself take comfort in it.

“You are an oaf.” He declares as he pulls back enough to see his lover’s face. Thorin tilts his forehead down until their brows touch and Bilbo swallows hard at the gesture.

“Is this a yes? Will you stay, and accept my promise of engagement? You must answer me, Hobbit.”

Bilbo scoffs but looked down at his now open palm, the glittering band of diamond daisies and what he realizes must be _mithril_ now glinting up at him.

“Why daisies?” He sniffs after a moment, voice wavery but honestly curious.

Above him Thorin makes a pained sort of grunt and reaches in to pick up the ring with a sigh. Bilbo tries to tell himself he’s being ridiculous but his heart stops a little bit when the band is lifted from his palm.

“When we were at Beorn’s-” The King begins after a long moment of turning the ring around in front of their eyes. “On that day when I sat with you in his fields, you were braiding these blooms together. I do not think you had a reason to do it, other than to keep your fingers occupied, but I was- I was struck by the thought that I had never really seen you before. That I had never seen you as you _are_. A child of green things and peace and comfort.”

Here Thorin’s words seem to fail him and Bilbo takes pity, picking up his face and brushing a kiss on the King’s brow. The warrior inhales sharply and closed his eyes like it was the sweetest pleasure he’d ever experienced.

They have not kissed since Laketown and Bilbo has missed this warm skin beneath his lips.

“Daisies are a flower of innocence and new beginnings.” Bilbo admits quietly when he pulls away. It felt right to see them now on this ring. “I am not much of one for jewels, Thorin Oakenshield, but I have always loved Daisies.”

“Bilbo-” Thorin seems on the verge of begging and the Hobbit is in a mood for mercy and he laughs softly for the first time in a long time, the sound almost startling him.

“Yes. Yes, you git, give me the ring. I accept your proposal, although we’re going to have a nice, _long_ engagement, is that clear? Yavanna knows we have plenty we sitll have to sort through.” He sniffs and squares his shoulders. “Is there a finger I should wear it on?”

Bilbo can hear the king’s throat work as he swallows hard then nods, pulling back enough to pick up Bilbo’s left hand and turn it so it’s held palm to the ground. “Rings which symbolize promises of betrothal are worn on the second finger from the outside of the left hand.”

It’s Bilbo’s turn to swallow then he giggles a bit shrilly because he can’t quite help it. _‘You are a child, Bilbo Baggins.’_ He scolds himself in his mind, but he can not stop the painfully wide stretch of a smile that pulls across his lips. ‘ _Giggling like a tween with a new sweetheart, honestly._ ’

“This one?” He dares to ask aloud, wiggling the finger in question and Thorin is so close that he feels the king’s hair brush against his cheeks when he nods.

“Yes.” The king murmurs and Bilbo laughs for a third time because he can’t help it.

“Oh all right then.” He goads. “Do you put it on or do I-”

Thorin cuts off his chatter by taking a hold of his hand, fingers around his palm and holding steady, the hand which holds the ring easing the band over Bilbo’s fingertip and sliding it smoothly down the digit. If it fits just a tad loose Bilbo didn’t mind, he has every plan to put on some sorely needed weight as food stores in Erebor improve.

For a long time they both just sit in silence, staring at the declaration now at rest on Bilbo’s finger. It glitters brightly even in the wan winter light, and Bilbo knows with abrupt clarity that it will be incredibly distracting until he gets used to it. He laughs again and turns his hand over, feeling giddy.

“This is ridiculous.” He says aloud. “We were quite cross at each other just an hour ago.”

Thorin stiffens briefly at first, then relaxes and grants the hobbit a soft huffing laugh of his own. “I imagine we will always butt heads Ghivashel, I am too proud and you are too practical and we are both too stubborn by a full measure.”

Bilbo picks his gaze off the ring and meets Thorin’s eyes again, their blue trained on him with an intensity that at once frightened and excited him. He smiles cautiously under the King’s perusal.

“Who is this dwarf before me?” He murmurs quietly after a moment. “This dwarf who speaks with such wisdom and insight? What has he done with Thorin Oakenshield?”

The King relaxes another fraction and gives Bilbo a small smile of his own. “He has given the dwarf that you knew a sound thrashing and bade him to do better, on pain of losing all that he holds dear.”

The smile softens on Bilbo’s face.

Something old and tired in him surges up and latches onto something old and tired which lives in Thorin. They have been through such trials together, such hardship, and their relationship has only barely begun.

’I am frightened.’ Bilbo admits silently to himself. _I have braved trolls and stone giants, riddled with monsters and snuck past dragons and_ here _I am frightened.’_

He has faced fear though, and he has bested it. He will not let it rule him.

_‘Courage.’_

Bilbo reaches up and places his small hands on either side of the King’s head, dragging him down the inches it takes so they can rest their brows together, and then he closes his eyes and breathes deep the scent of the dwarf who has bested his good sense.

“You need only be the dwarf I know you are at heart, Thorin Oakenshield, and you will never face losing me ever again. It is as simple as that.”

Thorin’s breath hitches and he reaches up to gently cover Bilbo’s wrists with his own warm hands. “You ask so much of me, hobbit.”

Bilbo shakes his head and touches the tips of their noses together. “I ask no more than what is best for you and best for your kingdom.”

“And for you.” The dwarf rumbles quickly and Bilbo lets his smile return.

“I believe so.”

\---

The wind still blows through the terrace but neither seems to feel the bite as acutely.

Thorin’s heart aches like a muscle just used after a long period of stillness and he cannot seem to let go of Bilbo, needing to touch him, needing to reassure himself that this is all true.

He runs his hand over the soft curves of Bilbo’s cheeks, noticing the thinness in that face now, the weariness.

He cards his fingers through Bilbo’s hair, noticing it’s longer now, that even with time a plenty the Hobbit still hasn’t cut it.

He traces the tips of those pointed ears, the plumpness of his lips.

He does not dare to rejoice just yet. He is only just growing used to the quiet burn of hope which has ignited in his chest.

“Truly?” He asks again, because he cannot help himself, and Bilbo laughs, turning his face in Thorin’s hands and rubbing against his touch..

“Truly, you blasted dwarf.” He reassures him quietly. “My thoughts have been... disquiet in the last weeks. I have been unable to bring myself to leave, even though it has hurt me to stay.”

Bilbo meets his eyes and Thorin drinks in the vision of him, having missed his directness.

“I am willing to try again, Thorin Oakenshield. I know you are King now, I know you will be busy and that this will be hard. I know that often the kingdom will come first. I know that. But I want to try.” Bilbo shifts under his heavy coat- an emerald green one, of Dwarven make- and smiles, but not without sadness. “I have tried living without you and it hurts me. I would rather cling to foolishness than embrace despair.”

“Never.” Thorin barks, the familiar color of self-loathing sparking again in his heart. “Mahal willing, I will protect you ever more from despair.”

Bilbo sighs and leans closer again. They cannot seem to keep space between them for very long. “Do not make promises you cannot keep.”

They sit in silence for a long time, arms wound loosely around each other, until Thorin feels the chill again, feels the shiver in Bilbo and he shifts to tug them both to their feet so they may move back into the more sheltered halls of the mountain.

“We are betrothed, then.” He declares, because he cannot help it. It feels good to wrap his tongue around the words.

At his side the Hobbit takes his offered arm and huffs, but smiles. “I suppose we are. Gods help us all.”

The ring glitters on Bilbo’s finger and Thorin’s gaze is drawn to it as they slowly make their way back into the mountain.

“I suppose we should tell the others, then.” Bilbo murmurs and Thorin chuckles and shakes his head.

“They will know.” He offers as explanation and Bilbo glances down a the band of diamonds and smiles.

Strength and innocence. Protection. New Beginnings.

A fitting promise.

“I suppose they will. The Hobbit declares as the dark and quiet of the stone corridors swallow them.

It has been a hard path, and certainly they do not expect it will not grow easier, but they will walk it together.

Bilbo smiles, and for the first time in a long time, he feels peace.

**Author's Note:**

> This is to be the first in, hopefully, a series of works revolving around various pieces of jewelry exchanged between the royal couple. I've cooked up a whole bunch of pieces for the crown jewel collection. This first ring is from Tiffany's.


End file.
